


i was young, but not for long

by alamorn



Category: Dredd (2012)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26038258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: Anderson has a favor to ask of Dredd before she goes on an undercover mission.
Relationships: Cassandra Anderson/Joseph Dredd
Comments: 11
Kudos: 97





	i was young, but not for long

**Author's Note:**

> Title from At The Purchaser's Option by Rhiannon Giddens
> 
> CNTW for canon-typical stuff.

Anderson took a moment to think -- again -- before she knocked. Was this worth the embarrassment? 

The worst that could happen, she reminded herself, the same loop of thought since she'd received the assignment, was that he could say no. And lose any good opinion he had of her, but there was only so much of that to begin with. If she _didn't_ , the worst that could happen would be that she would get raped on assignment and lose her virginity that way. Or, well, she had no reason to believe she'd be raped, specifically. But her CO had told her she had to do anything it took, though he hadn't said _honeypot_. And knowing that she wouldn't be struggling didn't make it more appealing.

She wasn't stupid enough to think that having her second time be rape would be less traumatizing than her first, but there was far less cultural cachet on the second time, and, despite herself, she bought in. Anderson took a deep breath. She brushed her mind out once more, checking that Dredd was in his room. And she knocked.

With her mind still outstretched, she could feel his spike of surprise. She could feel him rise from the floor, where he'd been doing push-ups, and approach the door. When he opened it, despite knowing that she was coming to his space, knowing that he was a man and not a machine, she was startled to see his full face, helmet discarded across the room with the rest of his equipment.

Barefaced, in a black tank-top and thin black sweatpants, Dredd did not look like a Judge. He looked like a man, and an attractive one. Blue eyes, short dark hair, thickly muscled arms. He blinked at her, mouth turning down in a familiar frown. "Anderson," he said, looking her over, seeing that she wasn't in uniform. "What is it?"

Thrown off by his face, by the reality of what she was doing, feeling vulnerable in her jeans and sweater, Anderson paused a moment, locked her powers down, so she wouldn't be able to feel his disgust, his rejection. "Can I come in?" she asked, marshaling her courage. 

He stared suspiciously at her, then stood aside with a grunt. His room was much like hers, but bigger. There was a door leading off the main room that made her suspect he was senior enough to have his own bathroom, a sign that he was far up the ranks. Most people who made it to that senior of a position moved out of the provided housing long before. Anderson was certainly planning to, if she survived her first year.

"I, uh," she turned in the middle of the floor, not seeing anywhere to sit but his narrow bed, "I got an undercover assignment."

Dredd grunted, closing the door firmly and flicking the latch. "Not supposed to talk about those."

"You're not a security risk," she said. "And before you say you might be, remember that I can read minds."

He snorted, a brief flicker of amusement, and she caught herself staring at his eyes, captivated by all the emotion they revealed. She'd bought in to his act, she realized. She'd believed that he was the law made flesh, not a man but a personification, and only a loose one at that. She'd seen inside his mind and been convinced that he was anger and fear and more anger made solid. She'd watched him bleed. She'd had his hands on her own torn flesh. And she'd still believed.

Looking at his eyes, at the tan line for his helmet, she realized the depth of her mistake. And while she could ask a man who wasn't a man to do her this favor, she couldn't put this on a real person. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have come. I'll go."

He shifted his weight so he was firmly blocking the door, arms crossed, weight balanced like he was ready for a fight. "Why'd you come, Anderson?"

He hadn't called her rookie since Peachtrees. He respected her. And she'd planned on using him like... some sort of sex toy. And now he was concerned. Self-disgust rose hard in her throat.

After a long pause, gauging how serious he was and finding him implacable as always, Anderson said, "I'm nervous. I thought you might have some words of wisdom."

"Never been undercover," he said.

"I guessed," she admitted, not letting herself laugh at him, his inability to dissemble or lie or hide who and what he is. "But I trust you."

He blinked at that, a tell she wouldn't have seen in the field. "How deep?" he asked.

"Deep enough," she said, thinking of the dossier she'd been given. 

"What's the risk?"

The dossier had contained the reports of what happened to people who crossed the group she was infiltrating. Not skinned and dropped, but not better, either. Tortured. Starved. Displayed and flayed and made a message.

"Why you?" he asked and she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Because they don't even need to tell me where the money is," she said. "Or what they're planning on doing with it."

His weight shifted to something an increment more casual. "This have something to do with all those smash and grabs?"

_Smash and grab_ was a hilarious understatement. Three museums and five private collections had been hit in quick succession, the most expensive and transportable pieces taken from each. At each there had been at least one killing. At one, there had been five. On the scale of death in Megacity One, it was a footnote, but even the most overworked force could see the beginning of a trend. And it didn't take much thought to see that something else was going to come with it.

The Hall of Justice had been able to ferret out an auction for one of the pieces. Anderson was going. If she could get what they needed from that, she was done, but no one thought that would be enough. The leaders of groups like this didn't move their own merchandise. 

"This is why they wanted me," she said, giving up her pride and sinking to sit on the edge of Dredd's bed. The mattress was hard. "If I do well, this is what I'll be doing for the rest of my career. If I don't, I'll die."

Dredd didn't approach her, didn't crouch to bring them at a level. In this small of a room, he didn't have to. His presence was immense, suffocating, comforting. She breathed in deep, tried to identify the smell of the room. The leather of his gear, of course, plain soap. Little else. No food smells, no scented products. He was a ghost in his own space.

"That's always been true," he said, not quite dismissively. "The Hall of Justice demands your talents. You knew that when you joined."

She couldn't disagree. 

"Anderson," he said, quietly, insistently, "why did you come?"

She stared at the toes of her boots. Not work regulation, but old brown leather, well worn, comfortable enough to run in, if she had to. She'd bought them with her first paycheck. "It might be a honeypot," she told her boots, and even though she had her powers locked down as tightly as she could, she could feel a ripple of _something_ from Dredd. Not shock, he was no rookie. Not interest, because he wasn't a pervert. But something, and she didn't try too hard to figure it out, for fear it would make her hate him.

"You don't need to fuck a person to read their mind," he said evenly, and she forced a smile, still staring at her toes.

"I don't, no. But maybe I need to fuck a person to meet their boss." She tried to keep her voice even, but she could hear the bitterness come through.

Finally, Dredd approached her, kneeling a foot in front of her to catch her eyes. Not crowding. She appreciated that. Even if it was contrary to what she'd come for. "Who told you that?"

"It was implied," she said, didn't give her superior's name, could tell that if she did, Dredd would do something stupid, like file a complaint. Judges weren't spies. Honeypots were not part of the job description. 

He grunted and stood, turned to the kitchenette, which was mostly a hotplate and a sink, and poured a glass of water, pressed it into her hands. "Don't do it, then," he said.

That made her look up at him, a small smile slipping onto her face. "Is _the_ Judge Dredd encouraging me to follow the letter of the law, not the spirit?"

He grunted again.

Fondness threatened to overwhelm her. "Thanks," she said, standing. "I should go."

"You got what you came for?" he asked and she looked again at his bare face, took a moment to imprint it on her memory. 

"Seems so," she said. Gathered her courage and put her hand on his shoulder, almost shocked that it was warm skin under her hand. "Thanks again."

He stared at her, blue eyes intent, trying to figure her out. "Don't get yourself killed, Anderson," he said, which was possibly the nicest thing he'd ever said to her. Suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes, which was humiliating. She felt Dredd freeze and pinched the bridge of her nose, hard, trying to press the tears back in. 

"Sorry," she said, heading for the door fast, trying to end the torture as quickly as possible for both of them. "Sorry, I didn't mean to -- thank you, Dredd."

He grunted, got the door for her. His discomfort rolled off him in waves, but didn't leak through to his voice. "Keep me updated."

"That would be a breach of protocol, sir," she said, brushing away the last of the tears and staring straight-faced at him until she saw a small furrow between his brows. Then she allowed herself to smile. "Will do."

\--

The auction was nothing like any crime scene she'd been on, and her cigarette pants and fake silk blouse didn't feel anything like enough protection. Not that it looked like it would become a firefight anytime soon. Still, she felt naked, no gun, no armor, her hair cut short and sleek and dyed a deep, bloody red. 

She mingled for a while, pretending to sip a flute of champagne, and then felt the energy of the room change. A screen was rolled out, and the crowd took their seats, arranged stadium style facing the front of the room, where the screen was. On the screen, a statuette of a nude woman, heavy breasts and belly, stood on black velvet.

The auctioneer took his place next to the screen. Anderson had already passed through his mind, been satisfied that he was an outside contractor and knew nothing about the reason behind the robberies. He was hungover and didn't want to be there for a single item, but he was making five percent of whatever the selling price was, and he knew as well as the rest of the people in the room that it would go for millions.

Anderson was supposed to draw attention to herself and lose the auction, make enough of an impression that she could offer something the thieves would want more than money. 

She raised her hand. "Excuse me, how do we know that's a live feed? Can we see, um, a two, a four, a three, and a one?"

The auctioneer spoke into a walkie-talkie and a hand appeared on the feed, flashed the numbers. Anderson nodded with satisfaction, feeling the frisson of awareness of her in the mind of the muscle watching the door. In his mind, she was angular, a possible problem, but nothing to worry about. That was where she wanted to keep it.

The bidding started at a million. Everyone was aware that the piece was hot, but, and this was a fact that got her bit between her teeth, no one in Megacity One cared much about the law unless a Judge was in sight. It was understandable, given their response rate, but it was hell on her running argument with Dredd about inherent morality.

She raised her hand, upping the bid, until she could feel her main competitor was about to drop out. Then she stopped, making a show of her annoyance. When the winner cast a smug look her way, Anderson kept her gaze flat and cold.

After, as the rest of the assorted upper class streamed out, Anderson scanned around for someone who knew something. There was a woman, tall and willowy, smooth dark hair pulled up in an elegant chignon and the brightest thing about her the soles of her shoes, a bloody red, and her mind was a mess of information. She was in charge here, and Anderson made a bee-line to her.

"Hi," she said, sticking out her hand. The woman -- Delia, that was her name, but she was going to call herself Scarlet -- stared first at Anderson's hand, then at her face, dark eyes unamused. After a long, pointed pause, she took Anderson's hand. No calluses, but from what Anderson was picking up from her mind, she wasn't a behind the scenes actor. She got her hands dirty, she just moisturized well. "I hope I'm right in thinking your group might have more items for sale shortly?"

"Excuse me," Delia said, leaving a space for Anderson to fill in her own name.

Anderson favored her with a wide smile. It felt as false as it was, and Delia wasn't convinced by it. That was fine -- they needed to believe her greedy and connected to something they wanted, not friendly. "Madeline," she said, quite certain that MaMa would not have resented having her name borrowed. And if she did, she wasn't going to bother Anderson about it. "I didn't manage to buy that beauty you had for sale today. My assets aren't quite liquid enough for the prices you're racking up, but I might have something you're interested in for trade."

"Madeline," Delia said. "Thank you so much for coming today, you can call me Scarlet. We're really not looking for trades. Liquidity is important to us."

They needed weapons, Anderson saw. An amount of firepower that Anderson couldn't comprehend in private hands. They were planning a war. She tilted her head, tried not to go pale. "The people I represent would like to make a deal for right of first refusal. In exchange, I'm able to offer something I think you might enjoy."

Delia sighed, eyes darting over Anderson's shoulder. Anderson kept her powers focused on Delia. Messing up now would be fatal. "We're not fucking," Delia said. "You don't need foreplay to ease me into it. Make your offer or get out of my face."

"A tank," Anderson said. "Stolen from the Hall of Justice. Like new condition, if you don't mind the blood stains."

She had Delia's attention now. All of it. "We would have heard about a theft like that."

"Would you?" Anderson asked, miming shock. "The Hall of Justice doesn't know everything that goes on under its roof, no matter what they try to tell you. And you think they would advertise losing a tank? If you're not interested, of course, I can go."

"No," said Delia. "Keep talking."

"I represent," Anderson said, trying to remember her cover story, "a private collector, very fond of historical pieces. If you have another piece like the one that was auctioned today," and they _did_ , they'd stolen three fertility icons in the same hit, "he would be very interested in seeing it. If he wants it, the tank is yours."

Delia arched an eyebrow, trying to look unaffected, but Anderson was inside her head, could feel the rapid pulse of her heart, the beading of sweat under her arms. Delia wanted the tank, wanted to be the one who took this win home. "We'll need some evidence that you have what you say. You understand."

"Of course," Anderson said. "Here's my card. Give me a call whenever you're ready to see it."

Then, with a smile, she left, lingering in Delia's mind as she walked away, gauging how well the hook had been set. Delia waited for her to leave the room before pulling out her phone, dialing someone in her contacts as _Blue_ but who she thought of as Frances.

"Something interesting just came up," she said, and Anderson could feel that she was suspicious, but that her greed was overpowering it. And then she was walking out of Anderson's range, just the fluttering knowledge of tentative success catching at the edges of the net of her mind.

She made her way circuitously back to the Hall of Justice, sure that she had no human tails, but taking care to obscure any trail that a bot or program might have followed. It was kind of... fun, to play spy. In her Judge's leathers there was no misdirection, there was only the mission. There was no sliding through the crowd; the crowd parted for a Judge, everyone thinking of their guilts, large and small, and trying to avoid her eyes. 

\--

It took two months to arrange things, and half of that was stringing Delia along so it wouldn't seem too neat.

Anderson had to arrange the tank, had to track the art, had to take a long, panicked moment when she realized that they were fundraising for a full out _war_ on the city, and then had to spend hours writing up the reports. The information gathering was the easiest part, really -- she was able to scrape the information out of the minds of each of the thieves she met. Piecing it together was harder. Writing it up was hardest.

But finally, she was ready to move. It had been shockingly easy, really. Delia didn't _like_ her, but she didn't suspect her, either. She'd never had to put herself in a situation that felt unbearably vulnerable. After her first mission, she was almost disappointed. No one had even tried to shoot her! 

She was glad she hadn't propositioned Dredd. It would have been an overreaction. She would have felt stupid about it for the rest of her life. This mission was nothing to worry about. The Chief Judge had even reassured her, after receiving her frantic reports, that various extremist groups tried to start a war against the Hall of Justice at least once a decade. None had succeeded yet, and this wasn't likely to be the exception.

\--

The warehouse had been seized years ago from a family that had tried to buy the Chief Judge and had sat dormant ever since. It was crowded with expensive construction materials -- everything illicit that had been in it had been disposed of, but the Hall of Justice wasn't quite sure what to do with exotic hardwoods. Anderson was fairly certain that some of the upper echelon had remodeled their own apartments with them, but no one who worked for the Hall of Justice could afford that kind of square footage. Within the shadowy corridors of construction materials, the tank loomed like a monster.

Delia, when she saw it, beamed. Frances, beside her, faked calm, but Anderson could feel the way excitement thrilled through him, popping and sparking, ideas cascading. He would ride it through the streets. He would knock down the front door of the Hall of Justice, instate himself as Chief Judge. No, he would change the world entirely -- he would be _king_. No, one tank wouldn't be enough for that; he would simply crush all of his competition. And who needed the Hall of Justice, anyway? They had a big tower, and the nicest guns, but the _real_ power lay with the gangs, in their penthouse apartments.

Anderson's head hurt from how quickly he jumped from thought to thought, implicating all sorts of interesting people as he did so.

"I've kept my end of the bargain," she said, smooth and unaffected. "Now it's time for you to keep yours."

She didn't see it coming, because they hadn't planned it out. Anderson had a second's warning, the snap of the decision, to dive behind one of the pallets of hardwood when Delia pulled a gun. The hardwood, thankfully, was both hard and deep. The bullets didn't reach her, and she heard Delia swear while Frances yelped in surprise and indignation.

"What are you _doing?"_ he said.

"Shut _up,_ Frances," Delia said. "Like you ever intended to give her one of the figurines."

"I absolutely _did,"_ Frances said. "I have the damn thing in my briefcase, there was no reason for guns to come out!"

"And do you want someone alive to tell the Judges we have one of their _tanks?"_ Delia said. She was circling, so Anderson moved with her, keeping her distance.

This was... fine, really. She had the information she needed, knew where the rest of the stash was from what she'd pulled from Frances' mind. She just wished she had her Lawgiver. Or body armor. Or backup.

But the name was almost as good as backup. "Delia St. John, you are guilty of theft, trafficking, and attempted murder of a Judge. The punishment, if you do not surrender, is death. Frances Drake, you are guilty of all that, in addition to treason. The punishment is death."

"What the _fuck_ ,"Frances said. "She's a Judge? She's a fucking Judge? I didn't know they could go undercover. What the fuck have you gotten me into, Delia? How does she know my name?"

Delia was less distracted, but that was fine; Anderson had a small gun, and soon she would have an angle. "See? It's a good thing we're going to kill her. Stop being a little bitch, Frances, and get your gun out."

"If you weren't so fucking useful, I'd kill you myself," Frances said, and then his voice was moving too. It was hard to track both minds at once, so she focused on Delia, who was clearly the more dangerous of the two. 

Anderson kept moving, leading them deeper into the labyrinth of the warehouse. When they were far enough from each other, she went after Delia. Unfortunately, the cover worked both ways, and she had to slink out of hers to get the right angle.

But Delia had a sixth sense of her own, it seemed, and she whirled on Anderson, firing wildly. It took a high caliber bullet to get through a Judge's body armor, but she wasn't wearing body armor, and Delia's little pistol had more than enough kick to get through Anderson's pretty silk blouse and fine trousers. The bullet hit the upper curve of her hip and lodged there, and Anderson hadn't been shot enough to stop herself from yowling at the pain. 

It was different than the last time she'd been shot; that bullet had gone straight through, and she'd been so _tired_ , running on the fumes of adrenaline, that she'd only been able to lie there, too surprised to scream.

Now, there was no Dredd to cover for her if she faltered. 

So she didn't falter.

Her mind was spread wide, aware of _everything_. Frances was coming from behind, Delia, gloating before her, so she lifted her gun, but before she could fire she had to _move_ , Frances wasn't coming, he was _here_ , and she could _feel_ the bullet when she ran, grinding against her bone. Small mercies: it was in her pelvis, not the joint. She _could_ run.

Frances shot even more wildly than Delia, and she counted his shots, dodging and fleeing until his gun clicked empty.

She didn't give him a chance to reload, darting out from behind a pallet and firing at Delia, who still had most of a clip.

It wasn't a neat shot, but Delia was too busy clutching the hole in her chest to try and shoot Anderson again, so it was a victory. Anderson crept up to her to finish it, trying to find Frances' mind once more, and kicked the gun away from her hand. When she leveled her own at Delia's head, intending to exact the judgement, something slammed into the side of her face.

She went down hard, her legs tangling with Delia's, at least until Delia started trying to kick her with all the strength she had left. Frances stood over them, his empty gun held by the barrel. He'd _pistol-whipped_ her. What an asshole. 

Anderson hadn't dropped a gun since her assessment, and she didn't need to be on her feet to end this. She took Frances down with a neat doubletap, then dragged herself to her feet, hip protesting, and shot Delia once in the head.

Standing over the bodies, free hand pressed to the hole in her hip, face throbbing, Anderson said, deeply and with feeling, "Ugh."

Then she hobbled to the door, blood soaking the leg of her pants, and went to her motorcycle. It was no Lawmaster, but it had her helmet, and her helmet had a radio built in. She sat heavily sidesaddle and put her helmet on. "This is Judge Anderson, calling Control. I have two bodies for recyc at this location."

"Copy, Anderson," said Control. "Recyc incoming. Do you require medical assistance?"

Anderson considered her hip and considered riding her motorcycle back to the Hall of Justice to get the bullet out. Dredd would do it, but Dredd was a crazy man. "Yes," she said. "Bullet in my hip, mobility limited."

"On its way," Control said. "ETA 15 minutes."

"Thank you, Control. Anderson out."

She took her helmet off and set it on the seat next to her. Then she tilted her head back and breathed through the pain. The assignment was over. She'd done... well, she thought. It was unfortunate that she'd had to kill Delia and Frances before she was done wrapping things up, but she'd pulled all the information they had from their minds, and with that, the Hall of Justice would be able to find and take down the rest of their shitty little army. She probably could have handled the combat better, but she also could have handled it _worse_. A lot of Judges would have taken a bullet to the back of the head, there.

Dredd probably could have taken them down without injury, but, then again, Dredd was the person most uniquely unsuited to undercover work that she had ever met. He never would have been in that position in the first place.

She was her own Judge, and measuring herself against Dredd was foolish. And it wasn't really that she thought he could have handled it better, she thought with a wince, trying and failing to ease the pain by shifting her weight. It was that she wanted him here with her. Somehow, despite himself, he was a comforting presence, and she was not above wanting comfort.

When the medvan got there, they helped her into the back and shot her full of anesthetic. She floated numbly through the bullet extraction and the medfoam and the drive back to the Hall, and thought about what she _wanted._

\--

She was waiting by his door when he got back from his shift -- 20 hours, and every one was clear on his face. He'd taken a decontamination shower on the lower levels and stuck of anti-septic, but there was still a spray of dried blood on one cheek that decontamination had sterilized but not cleaned. His helmet was held loosely in one hand.

"Anderson," he said, blinking, staring at her, perplexed and too tired to hide it.

"Dredd," she answered, moving to the side so he could open his door and head in. "I came to ask a favor."

"Your case?" he said, then thought loudly, as if he was trying to project it at her, _the undercover?_

"Yes," she said, walking in behind him. The door slid shut, just a whisper of noise. "Kind of. Not advice this time. It'll only take a little bit."

He went to his locker and put his helmet away, his gun, then his jacket. He glanced over his shoulder at her, hands hesitating at the waist of his pants. "You mind?"

"Hear me out first."

"It's been a long day," he said. "Make it fast."

"I want you to fuck me."

Everything about him went still. Slowly, he said, "Don't think I heard you right."

"You did," she said. "I'm not _proud_ to ask you this, Dredd, I know you don't want to. Tell me no and I'll leave."

"Why," he said, "are you asking." It wasn't really a question. It barely sounded like speech, more like rocks scraping together. He was totally, completely rigid, his muscles clenched tight. She stared at his back, kept her mind to herself.

"I wrapped up my case earlier," she said. "I thought about what I wanted."

He stared at her for a long time. When he finally spoke, he didn't tell her to get out. Instead, he said, "When you came to me, the first time. What did you really want?"

The side of her face was swollen. She'd never felt less attractive. But she'd just spent two months being attractive, and she found she didn't much care for it. She preferred the straightforward world of crime and judgment. "I wanted you to fuck me," she said, laid out her crime neatly in front of him, waited calmly for her judgment.

"Why?" he asked, voice tense and tight. For the first time she wondered if _he_ was a virgin too.

"I thought I might have to -- to keep my cover, I thought I might have to. I didn't want that to be my first time."

If possible, he tensed further. Still, he kept his face turned from her. "Why come to me?"

"I trust you," she said simply. "Not a lot of people I can say that about."

Silence spread between them, thick as honey, thick as blood.

"Tell me to go and I will," she said. She ached to read his mind, wanted so badly to know what he was thinking. But she didn't. He would tell her, and it would be over, and she would have destroyed their relationship but not his trust in her.

His voice rasped out of him, hoarse and painful. "Fine."

She frowned, face twinging with the motion. "Fine?"

"I'll do it." He turned, finally, and his eyes were blazing, his jaw clenched tight. "Now?"

"I -- yes," she said, stunned.

"Lock the door," he grunted.

Numbly, she reached behind herself and fumbled the lock closed.

They stared at each other for a moment; Anderson didn't know what came next, hadn't gotten this far in her imagination, and when she allowed herself just the slightest peek into Dredd's mind, neither did he. 

She took refuge in practicalities. "My hip's in bad shape. Can you... be on top?" Saying it out loud felt almost unbearable, but he just nodded.

Anderson crossed to his narrow bed and sat carefully. "Kiss me?" she asked. She'd never been kissed, but she'd watched movies and ached to know what it was like. Dredd crossed to stand between her legs, scowling, and bent, pressing his lips awkwardly to hers. They were dry and chapped and the scowl pulled them tight against his lips, but the slide of skin on skin brought his mind rushing into contact with hers.

He wanted to touch her. He was not acting out of pity, and there was no disgust lingering in his mind. He didn't know what to do any better than she did, but that didn't mean he wanted it any less.

That gave her the courage to slide her hand around the back of his neck. "Gently," she whispered into his lips, and kissed him again. This time, his lips softened under hers, and some of the tension left his shoulders. Tentatively, he touched her. Her jaw at first, and then down, his calluses scraping the soft skin of her neck, and then down to the neck of her shirt. He toyed with the top button of the flannel, and she leaned her forehead against his. "Please," she said.

_Tell me what to do_ , he thought, loud and deliberate. 

"Okay," she said. _Unbutton my shirt._

He shivered at the sound of her voice in his mind, then set to work. His fingers were quick and clever, and he didn't require direction after that, pushing the open shirt off her shoulders. She hadn't put a bra on, after her shower, and he stared openly for a moment. His face was unreadable. His mind wasn't.

She wasn't the first woman he'd seen naked, or touched. But she was the first he'd _wanted_ to. She guided his hand to her breast, gasped when he rolled his thumb over her nipple. It felt strange -- his fingers were rougher than her own, and his thoughts pressed heavily at hers. Half the pleasure was from the pull of arousal she felt from him as her nipple grew hard under his touch.

Heat throbbed between her legs, echoed dully in his own mind. This doubling was almost overwhelming -- normally she could shut other minds out, but his skin on hers made it impossible. She wanted, and she could have ignored that, but his own want was powerful, eager.

So she relaxed into it. Lay back on the bed, and drew him down with her, pulling him in to kiss her once more. They moved back on the bed together, awkwardly, knees knocking, but that didn't slow them. When her head was on his pillow, he knelt between her thighs, hands hovering over her waist as they kissed.

She hadn't thought she would like kissing so much. It had always looked messy, a little gross, but when she was doing it, that was the last thing on her mind. When she opened her mouth under his, just wanting _more_ , his tongue slipped in and they both paused, uncertain, before she ran her tongue along his and he groaned into her mouth.

He fumbled her pants down, having to move her legs to get them off completely, and she let him, panting where she lay back against the pillow, propped up on her elbow. He was still almost fully dressed, the thick leather of his uniform pants skin hot against her inner thigh. 

"I want to see you, too," she said, blushing at _this,_ of all things. She could tell him what to do to her, but not himself? 

But he didn't make her squirm, pulling off his undershirt -- she reached out to touch the scar of the wound he'd gotten at Peachtrees, which was no worse than her own -- and then he opened the fly of his pants, shoved them down just far enough for his dick to pop out, and Anderson went, " _Oh_ ," the sound escaping her without her permission. Her face felt hot. His dick was thick and flushed deep red, and when she let her hand drop from the scar on his abdomen to grasp his cock, the foreskin moved easily, revealing the flanged head. She bit her lip, then looked back up at Dredd.

He was scowling, but that was no surprise. She'd learned not to take it personally a long time ago. 

She wasn't entirely certain it would fit, but it turned out she was eager to try. Her cunt throbbed, and she released his dick and grabbed his hand, pressing it to the damp gusset of her panties. His fingers twitched, and the blunt head of one found her cleft, curled up until it hit her clit. That startled a gasp out of her; normally it took her a while to get herself this worked up, but the strangeness of his hands on her had her blood fizzing. 

Anderson wasn't sure if her eagerness fed his, or if Dredd was just as worked up as she was, but he pushed the crotch of her panties aside and used his thumbs to part her lips. He stared for long enough that she started to get embarrassed, shifting slightly. Should she have shaved?

But no, none of his thoughts were critical. He was thinking about -- licking her. Blood rose in Anderson's face. When he leaned down and ran his tongue tentatively over her, she covered her hot face with her hands, embarrassed and pleased, and more turned on than she'd ever been in her life. It didn't matter that the pressure wasn't quite right, that his tongue was more exploratory than confident.

It was hard to track exactly what he was doing -- everything was so slick and wet and her entire cunt was a pulsing nerve, shocks running through her when he dipped his tongue in her entrance or curled it around her clit. His thoughts mixed with hers, and she felt the pressure of her thighs around his ears, tasted herself when he swallowed the wetness that rolled down his throat. 

She was making noises, she realized, somewhat distantly. Breathy, gasping noises, noises she hadn't known she was capable of, and with every noise she made, Dredd ground his cock into the bed. When he sank a finger into her, she clenched hard, and when he curled it and licked hard at her clit, her legs snapped tight around his head and her back arched.

Panting, she sagged back onto the mattress, all of her muscles slack and relaxed. The throbbing in her hip had grown distant. When he sat up, she stared at him, eyes heavy lidded. His lips were slick and red and he licked them before they twisted down once more.

She hooked her leg around his hips and pulled him closer, so his cock bumped into her oversensitive cunt. It was almost too much, but that was what she wanted, so she told him, "Do it."

He lined himself up and sank in slowly, a burning stretch unlike anything she'd felt before. If she hadn't been so relaxed, it would have been painful; as it was, it was akin to the pleasure of an overworked muscle. She shifted once, curious as to how it would feel, and he stilled, fingers tightening on her thigh almost to the point of bruising.

When he didn't move again, she braced her feet on the mattress and rolled her hips, pulling a groan out of him. His thoughts were an unreadable scrum, focused on sensation and distance. It was sweet -- he didn't want to come too soon. There were things she could have said, if he were a different person, or she was, but they were who they were, and no words seemed right. Instead, she clenched around him experimentally, and cupped his face, running her thumb over his damp lip. 

It was too tender; this wasn't love, it was a favor. A step away from business. But she hadn't overstepped yet, and it had made her bold. She pressed her thumb into his mouth, over his sharp teeth and onto the firm muscle of his tongue. He closed his eyes and sucked, tongue curling around her thumb with something indistinguishable from intimacy.

And then, finally, he started to move.

Dredd was a strong man, and when he snapped his hips into hers, the force moved through her body, thrust her up the bed, until she braced her free hand against the wall to keep from being pushed any farther. It wasn't as good as when he'd used his mouth on her, but when he reached down and started to rub her clit, heat started to build in her once more.

He didn't last long. His orgasm moved through him and into her, the sensation moving between their bodies in a ripple of feedback so that she wasn't sure if she came again, or just rode along with his orgasm. Either way, when she blinked herself back into her own body, he was slumped over her, forehead pressed into her collarbone. There was something soft and languid about his thoughts, though that didn't last long either. The moment she stirred under him, he sat up, pulled out, and retreated across the room.

The walls in his mind had gone back up, so that when she thoughtlessly reached out, all she brushed was his well-banked anger. And beneath it, as always, was fear and shame. She pulled her mind back tightly, embarrassed at her lapse; just because they'd fucked didn't mean she could presume intimacy. She'd approached him for this _because_ fucking was not intimacy. It was foolish to forget that.

She sat and reached for her pants while he stripped and washed, his back to her. The sensation of his come in her was strange and unpleasant, and she found herself wishing she'd brought a condom -- she'd thought about pregnancy and disease, and considered her IUD protection enough, but she had not considered discomfort. 

He didn't look at her while she dressed, so she chewed over a few thoughts, and then said, "Thank you." 

Dredd grunted, and she would have hidden her smile if he'd been looking. As it was, she let it show. And then she left.

\--

Anderson was almost disappointed when she didn't feel different the next day. She was slightly sore in different places than she was used to, but that was it. Even when she thought of Dredd, she felt much the same as she always had. He'd sewn her up, her first day on the job. What they'd done the night before was similar. She'd had a need, and he had fulfilled it. Both had involved flesh and blood.

She'd known he was the right person to go to. Finding a stranger would have been an embarrassing trial, and probably wouldn't have been as good. Not everyone took her mutation as well as Dredd did.

It was a week before she saw him again. She barely noticed -- they worked in different districts, and their cases rarely overlapped. If he'd been avoiding her, it would have taken her months to realize. As it was, she only noticed passing him in the Hall of Justice because upon seeing her, a tidal wave of undifferentiated emotion rose within him, loud enough that she turned to see the source and saw him striding away. If his emotions hadn't slapped her in the face, she wouldn't have known anything was amiss -- he had not hesitated, or looked at her. 

She frowned after him for a long moment, then shook it off. Whatever the problem was, this wasn't the time to deal with it.

But she kept thinking about it, as she moved about the city. He'd been -- angry, as always, and something else. The shame, from before, had been there. And under that?

She wasn't quite sure. She'd need to see him again, get another sample to be able to tell. That was easier said than done, but it was far from impossible -- she just waited to hear him call for back-up and called in a response.

When they finished dealing with the situation -- a simple enough shoot-out -- Dredd looked at her, and that swell of emotion rose again. "Good job, Anderson," he said, his voice betraying none of the emotion she could feel. What _was_ it?

"Thanks," she said, getting back on her Lawmaster and an image of her, naked, head thrown back, sweat beaded on her neck and chest, face twisted with pleasure, slammed into her head so hard she fumbled the ignition. 

_His_ motions, on the other hand, were smooth and easy, as if he were not consumed by thoughts of _her._ "Dredd?" she said, but when he grunted and looked at her, the words died on her tongue. "See you," she finished lamely.

Driving, she moved too fast to absorb anyone's thoughts or emotions, which was a blessed relief at the moment. So, Dredd wanted her, and hated that he did so. He was too much of an adult to hate _her_ for being what he wanted, at least. 

Still, that left her with a question. Did she want him? She'd been perfectly satisfied with their night together, hadn't expected anything more. Hadn't even thought of the possibility. But she was thinking of it now; she had more than enjoyed herself, and Dredd was one of her favorite people in the whole stinking morass of Megacity One. 

If he'd had a better idea of what he wanted, other than _her_ , she might have been able to decide more easily. But he was little more experienced than she was, and his thoughts had not contained any sort of plan for the future. She could keep fucking him, she supposed. That would be... pleasant. But was that all she wanted, now that she was thinking once more about want?

She didn't have any more vocabulary for it than he did. She wanted -- to be comfortable with him, she supposed. She trusted him with her life, she trusted him enough to ask such a favor of him, but being with Dredd was never _comfortable_. She wasn't sure he was capable of comfort, either for himself, or for others.

Yet she wanted him anyway.

Anderson slowed to a stop in the garage of the Hall of Justice, and she paused on her Lawmaster and sent Dredd a message before she could overthink it.

It was his decision now. If he really wanted her, all he had to do was say so.


End file.
